


Malfoy Shrugged

by uselessenglishmajor



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 19:54:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17773226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uselessenglishmajor/pseuds/uselessenglishmajor
Summary: February 14th is just another day at the office for Hermione Granger.Shame no one else got the memo.





	Malfoy Shrugged

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Just a bit of mindless Valentine’s fun. Hope you enjoy. <3

“Is this your doing?”

Hermione surveyed the office, hands on hips, eyes narrowed and head pounding from a lack of adequate caffeination so early in the morning. In reality she was late—late by fifteen minutes for her and still an hour earlier than anyone else—but that was deliberate. She had no desire to prolong this day. The sheer volume of red hearts and flowers and fairies dressed in obnoxious Cupid costumes (including stupid little bows and arrows) that floated about her was going to induce some kind of seizure, she was sure.

“Bah, humbug,” she muttered, batting all romantic-themed obstacles aside as she stomped to her desk.

“It has nothing to do with me.” The only other occupant had not looked up from his work. She was surprised that he was even in this early and had obviously been here for some time judging by the several inches of parchment and three empty coffee cups that covered his desk. “Though to hear your pleasant countenance at the spectacle brings me a modicum of joy, I have never been a masochist.”

“So you hate it too?”

An elegant hand vaguely gestured with a quill to a vase of dead, blackened roses. “Apologies. I think those were meant for you.”

That elicited a small smile. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Couldn’t help myself, Granger.” He glanced up. “Just wait til you see the card.”

“You read the—”

Draco Malfoy shrugged. It was a practiced movement with a plethora of subtle variations. She had come to learn their many meanings in the two years they had been working together, thrown into a forgotten corner of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. For Hermione, it had been her dream; fresh from nine Outstandings in her N.E.W.T.s and a wealth of job offers from every department in the Ministry and beyond, she had chosen an entry-level position in the place that time, sense and all rationality had forgot, as Malfoy liked to call it. He was here under the terms of his probation, rehabilitation through the championing of those he had once seen beneath him. Their purposes were crossed since she cared and he didn’t. Still, they made a formidable team, despite the first six months of struggle.

It had come to a head the morning she had arrived to find five house-elves organizing thousands of files under Malfoy’s careful instructions. The kicker had been that the documents were towards legislation that would hopefully set them free. Hermione had been apoplectic; Malfoy had seen no problem. They had argued—loudly and longly and emphasized by several violently cast hexes—until the smallest house-elf had burst into tears. “Look what you’ve done now, Granger,” he’d sneered. “It’s okay, Mipsy. Ignore that kneazle-haired ogre. You’re doing a fantastic job.” And he had gone back to micromanaging the micro-sized creatures.

Two months later the House-Elf Liberation Act was passed.

That was how they worked: she brought the passion and determination and he the brutal and ruthless pragmatism required to navigate the bureaucratic dungheap (also Malfoy’s phrase) that constituted the Ministry. People left them alone and Hermione liked it that way. They weren’t friends but they were colleagues, effective ones at that, and sometimes he was the only person she would speak to and share her day with. Especially since her break-up with Ron.

It had been a year now. Exactly one year. For they had broken up spectacularly last Valentine’s Day.

“Open it,” Malfoy said, and she knew this shrug meant that he had no regrets and he was doing her a favor and wasn’t it better that he pried into such things and saved her the heartache and him the drama of hearing her whine all day. That was how damn subtle his shrugs could get and how expert she was at reading them.

“Oh.” Hermione smoothed out the envelope that held the card, her name spelled as _MIONE_ in the florist’s hand and the edge already neatly ripped. She sat down and tipped the card out.

_Dear Mione,_

_Isn’t it time that we should try again? A new year—_

“—a new day. Valentine’s Day.” Malfoy spoke the words in monotone, eyes returned to the parchment on his desk. “I’ll always regret what I said and how it ended. I’m sorry. New beginnings, yeah?”

Hermione placed the card down and glared at the top of his blond head. He glanced up with an innocent smile. “I thought the ‘yeah?’ really made it. Who wouldn’t be won over by that?”

“Who wouldn’t indeed?” She reached for her wand and set the card on fire then moved to the dead, blackened roses. “Much better.”

“Très, très romantique.”

He joined in and cast his own wand towards the fluttering fairies, transfiguring their outfits into the heavy black robes of wizarding undertakers. Red hearts became lumps of coal and flowers root vegetables.

“Valentine’s carrots?” Hermione said.

“Love is dead. It belongs in the ground.”

The atmosphere was suddenly more pleasant. She felt warmed by her hatred of this awful day and that she could share it with someone who apparently despised it even more than her.

“Who hurt you, Draco?” she said and she smiled as his eyes startled then narrowed in suspicion.

“Who hurt me? My dear Hermione,” she blushed at her name, “my heart is a horrid blackened thing of spite and disappointment and broken dreams. I was viciously let down by a house-elf. And this is my punishment.” He waved his wand and all the decorations vanished, along with the ashes of Ron’s apology flowers. “You see a shell of a man before you; a devastatingly handsome and charming shell, but a shell nonetheless.”

“And what am I?”

“Tiring. A distraction. The sad embodiment of every cynic I know, wearing a hard skin to hide your wounded little idealist heart. You remind me of my father in that sense.”

“I do?”

He never talked about his father. The apparent slip caused Malfoy to give an uncertain shrug. He rarely gave those either. “I’ve really come to loathe this day. I would rather save the wretched kelpies. Shall we?”

So you didn’t always hate it, she thought but made no further comment, agreeing that she would much rather immerse herself in work.

The peace lasted for a blissful two hours. Then came a knock. “Whatcha, Granger?” Cormac McLaggen entered without waiting, without manners or invitation or the self-awareness to realize how rude the interruption was. His wide frame staggered through to survey the room as if Malfoy wasn’t there. He deposited himself on the edge of Hermione’s desk and ventured, “A little lonesome?”

“What do you want?” she said, aiming for Malfoy’s effortless nonchalance as she kept her gaze on her work.

This was McLaggen’s seemingly four hundredth unsolicited overture towards her—for she knew that’s what this must be—ever since her break-up with Ron. He had accosted her in every corner of the Ministry, never taking “no” or “bugger off” or “you repulse me” or “is that your reflection over there?” for an answer. He had even reached for her bum in the lift until she had hexed his hand with an acid burn. He was already a deputy in the Department of Magical Games and Sports and seemed to think that this made him untouchable. She had tried to press for disciplinary action due to sexual harassment but it turned out no sexual harassment policy was in existence. The Ministry truly was a dungheap, she thought.

“Lunch,” he declared. “Let me dine you. I can wine you later. It’s Valentine’s Day, Granger.”

“And?”

“Given what happened last year—”

“What was that?” She put her quill down and finally looked at him. “I don’t recall my affairs being any of your business.”

“You don’t have affairs. That’s why I’m offering.”

“How gracious.”

“I thought so.”

“It always seems dangerous whenever you start thinking.” She could hear Malfoy snort, but McLaggen still seemed oblivious to his existence.

“Look, do you have plans or what?”

“I—”

“Yes, she does.”

“Who asked you?” Now McLaggen noticed her office buddy, though Malfoy spared no glance towards him as he responded:

“Granger always works through lunch. And well into dinner. Her heart belongs to this office and the downtrodden magical creatures of the world. Though you may be magical and a bullish, arrogant, oblivious brute, your dire predicament unfortunately does not fall under our remit. I suggest you leave.”

Malfoy still had not looked up, and it was then that Hermione realized she could never attain this masterful level of bored indifference.

McLaggen stood. “Why don’t you make me, Malfoy?”

“Why don’t I?” Hermione flung open the door with a flick of her wand. “You can show yourself out.”

“Can we at least do drinks later?”

Cormac’s large body went flying and the door slammed shut in his wake. Hermione sighed.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she mumbled to herself, and Draco Malfoy barked out a loud and unexpected laugh.

It was after two when she finally decided she was hungry. No one had bothered her again, somewhat aided by the locking wards and silencing charms she had placed following McLaggen’s swift exit. Malfoy had not eaten either. They had worked diligently, only speaking when a question arose or some other point required further clarification. The draft for the kelpies’ reservation protection bill was coming together, though a field trip would be required. Hermione tried to imagine Malfoy by a misty Scottish loch, cold and disheveled and displeased in the protective waterproof clothing they would be required to wear. She smiled at the thought.

“Hungry?” he said.

“Hmm?”

“You have the faraway look of a person in the throes of a hypoglycemic attack. I can have takeout delivered.”

“Don’t use the elves!”

He ignored her as he stepped over to their office floo. “I swear that might be your epitaph, Granger.” He threw in some powder and called for the Manor. “Thank you, Mipsy,” he said as small hands passed a large bag of takeout through.

“You already ordered?”

“I was keeping it warm until you collapsed from starvation. Here.” He came to the other side of her desk, shoving parchment aside as he unpacked cartons of food.

“Hey!”

“You still a stickler for the sweet and sour pork? I ordered other stuff too, but you’re so pathologically predictable.”

Soon his feet were propped up on her desk and he was expertly shoving prawn chow mein into his aristocratic maw. His love of Muggle takeaway had been a revelation, but she was never one to complain when it meant that he provided lunch. And though he blamed it—along with many other oddities—on the terms of his probation, there was nothing she could find in all the Ministry regulations that mentioned any requirement for experiencing Muggle culinary ways.

“You need to stop playing hard to get,” he said as he finished off a spring roll.

“Hard to get?”

“With McLaggen.” He ducked as she aimed a chopstick at his head. “You’ve attained a mythic status among the male population ever since you sent Weasel packing. It has made you unfeasibly desirable.”

“That’s hardly my problem.”

“But it is.”

“And I am not hard to get.”

“Really? So what would it take?”

She stabbed the last piece of pork with her now lone chopstick and pondered while she chewed. “A certain level of grace.”

“Swallow first.”

She scowled even as she did. “Manners and decency. Social intelligence. Emotional too. The ability to read a room and a person’s cues, to not have to spell everything out every minute of every day. Intellectual curiosity. A love of books. A sense of morality. Fidelity. Loyalty. To be protective without being overbearing. To hold a door and hold my hand but not patronize me as a woman. To appreciate my appearance but not value it above my brain and who I am. To care about the things I love. To have passion matched by restraint.”

Malfoy raised a single eyebrow. “That all?”

“A secure job and good looks always help. And I’ve always preferred my men tall.”

“Ah, it all makes sense now. The mythical creature isn’t you.”

“It’s not?”

“No. It’s the impossible ideal you’ve created for yourself. No human being in existence could ever measure up and as you spend your life alone, you’ll still take comfort in the self-righteous notion of never lowering your standards again. But really you’ve created a wall that keeps all others away. A rather devious and Slytherin approach, if I may say so.”

“You may not. And what about you? I’ve never heard of you dating. Can mummy and daddy no longer find a pureblood wife willing to take your name?”

“I’m hardly a catch these days. And I’ve found that the solitary life rather suits me. I should thank you in all honesty. Being witness to your own romantic tribulations has sworn me off relationships well into old age.”

“How very cynical. And protectionist.”

He gave an amused shrug to match his smirk. “Well played, Granger. Touché.”

Her pyrrhic victory marked the end of lunch. He could read her too well but in doing so had revealed where their similarities lay. There was no comfort in that. She did not want to see Draco Malfoy when she looked in a mirror.

He cleared up her desk and returned to his own and they slipped back into silence. It was less comfortable now and also notably less productive. She would catch him watching her and when he returned to mindlessly twirling his quill, she would find herself doing the same. Making eye contact, her pulse would race, her hand would slip and ink would splatter across the page. But there was no hidden truth to the blots, only chaos. Her thoughts were a mess. We’re both going to die alone. Maybe here in this office. And McLaggen will still try and ask my corpse out on a date.

“Ugh!”

“My thoughts exactly,” Malfoy said. He rose to respond to a tapping at the window Hermione hadn’t even noticed. When the window opened, a dozen owls flooded in.

“What on earth?”

“I’m surprised it took this long. Possibly your wards kept them from arriving earlier.” He began removing scrolls and handing out owl treats. At one point, three owls were sat along his shoulders and two more were on an arm. With his pale straw hair, long limbs and dark robes, he looked like a scarecrow and Hermione told him.

“The term you are looking for is scare-owl. And I’m not that scary.” He made his point by scratching the head of a little owl before sending it on its way. Eventually the room was emptied of birds and he began sorting the scrolls. “One for you and eleven for me.”

“What are they? Valentine’s cards?”

He smiled knowingly. “Still holding out, ay?” Returning to his desk, he opened the first of his pile. It was a howler, decrying his name and his face and all that he stood for now and during the war. “Such sweet music. Shall we play on?” Another swore that if the Malfoys made another marital overture towards their daughter they would be meeting the sharp end of a wand. There were at least four more in the same vein. And others denouncing his betrayal of both the Order and blood supremacy. The last submitted that he was good-looking but deserved no happiness beyond shameful and degrading hate-sex. “I think they like me,” he declared, folding up and storing that particular howler for posterity.

All in all, it was a strange, competing mixture of pureblood and anti-Death Eater venom, for Malfoy had somehow earned the wrath of both sides.

Hermione blinked. “Are you okay?”

He shrugged in resignation; there were hints of tiredness too and begrudging acceptance that the deluge of hateful vitriol still had its point. “My fans always deliver on the holidays.”

She stared down at her unopened scroll. “I suppose I should be grateful.”

“You think that’s a howler? It’s probably an offer of marriage from the Weasel. Or maybe McLaggen has tried his illiterate hand to haiku poetry.”

“Ha!” She threw the scroll at him. “You do the honors.”

He did, snatching it from the air with his seeker muscle memory. “It would be my pleasure.” The paper was red. The seal was unmarked. Malfoy even deigned to sniff it too. “Cheap cologne. I call Weasel.”

“Get on with it!”

He broke the seal and an instrumental version of a Weird Sisters’ ballad started to play. “Oh no.” Hermione covered her face with her hands before she could see Malfoy’s grin split his face fully in half.

“Mione, yeah?” he began in a dreadful imitation of Ron Weasley.

“It does not begin that way,” she hissed through her fingers.

“You are cordially invited to the annual Ministry Valentine’s Gala this Saturday. Floos open at seven. Formal robes required. A date in the spirit of love and romance is essential.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

“I told you this place is a dungheap.”

“So where’s your invite?”

“It says a date is required. Along with the spirit of love and romance. I suppose they didn’t want to risk me arriving stag and with my Dark mark showing.”

“Like you’d wear sleeveless robes.”

“Was that a compliment, Granger?”

She stuck out her tongue.

“Charming.” He stood and crossed the room to hand her the scroll. “You know what this means?” he said as she read and confirmed that the contents were word for word as bad as he’d stated.

“What?”

“You’re going to be inundated by offers of dates.”

“So what? I’m not going.”

“I believe beneath the R.S.V.P. it says attendance by Ministry employees is mandatory.”

“Except for you?”

“Aren’t I always the exception?”

“This place is barbaric!”

“I see you’re finally coming around to my way of thinking. Brightest Witch of her Age and all.” By now Malfoy was back behind his desk. “Just take McLaggen.”

“Tell me you’re joking.”

“Yes. But the fact you thought I might be serious is rather insulting.” He threaded his long fingers together and rested on his elbows to survey her coolly. “Honestly, I don’t know how to help you, Granger. Your special unicorn man does not exist.”

“Why don’t we plan our field trip this weekend?”

“What?”

“To survey the kelpies. I can say we made the arrangements before the invites were sent out.”

“You really don’t want to go to this thing, do you?”

“No.”

“And you’d rather spend your weekend in the cold dark depths of a loch with Wizarding Britain’s greatest pariah?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose it could be done.”

“Thank you!”

“And it does make me feel rather chivalrous.”

“I’m sure the feeling will pass.”

They smiled as they looked at each other. No taunts, no knowingness, just the contentment of being on entirely the same page. So they got on with their work. Hermione owled the Scottish branch of their department to make the arrangements, making sure to backdate her request at the suggestion of Malfoy. “We can blame the high Valentine’s Day owl traffic for the delay,” he said, which made his usual unassailable sense. The Ministry was forced to accept her declining of the gala invitation. The whole plot took barely two hours, time during which incessant knocks at the door were ignored. It was well after five when they were done and Hermione’s wannabe suitors appeared to have relinquished their hopes.

“Finally,” she said and released all the wards. Then the door opened and Ron Weasley entered, breathless and wearing muddied auror robes.

“Did you get my flowers?” he panted.

“Erm…” She looked with panicked eyes to Malfoy.

“I thought they were meant for me and incinerated them on the spot. You can never be too careful.”

“What?”

“If I had known your intentions were genuine, I would have read the note. Should I expect a formal declaration?”

Ron’s face started to go a shade of red that clashed with his hair. “You sabotaged my gift?”

“It was an accident, Ron. All Malfoy gets are howlers and boobytrapped presents. You can’t blame him for being cautious.” Hermione rose from her chair. “What are you here for?”

“It’s…” He glanced to Malfoy again. “Give us a minute, yeah?”

Malfoy shrugged. It was the one that was as good as giving Ron the middle finger. “Yeah? If you want me to?” he asked Hermione.

She nodded, and he left the room.

“How can you stand to work with him?” Ron said.

Arms folded, she arched an eyebrow in a way she was sure Malfoy would be proud of. “That’s all you came here to say?”

“I’m sorry, alright. I’m sorry for everything. I’ve had a year to think things through and it’s that time again and I know what I want now. It’s always been you. I messed it up but I don’t want to do it again. Gimme another chance, ‘Mione. Let me prove it to you.”

“Prove what? We’ve already proved that we’re a disaster. You’re one of my best friends, Ron, and I want to keep it that way.”

“Can’t we—?”

“No.”

“So this is final? You’re ending things for good on Valentine’s Day again?”

“Who cares what stupid day it is? And things already ended. This is just closure. This is me saying you’re my friend and I love you and I want you in my life. And I’m sorry too and I forgive you. Isn’t that better than last year?”

“I guess.”

She hugged him, head pressed to his chest while she waited for his arms to come up around her. “Thank you,” she whispered. Ron always ticked the tall box at least.

He hugged her back with a sigh. “I still need a date for the gala.”

“I’m not going.”

“How?”

“I’ll be in Scotland for work.”

She heard the door open behind them. “Granger—”

Shit.

“Weasley, what are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same, McLaggen.”

“That looks like a platonic hug.”

Ron held her tighter. “Well, it’s—”

“Ron!” She let him go. “I’ll handle this. We’ll talk later.” Ron refused to move while Cormac watched them with arms folded. Hermione threw her own arms up in frustration. “Men!”

“I only see one man in here,” McLaggen said.

“Yeah and you’re looking at him,” Ron retorted.

“Why don’t the pair of you date?” Hermione tried to hustle them through the door. “I am really not available, not for today, not for the gala, not for any day in the foreseeable future and not for either of you posturing neanderthal children.”

Unfortunately both of them were a lot bigger than her and she struggled to get them far. “Really. I have much better things to do.”

“Like what?” demanded McLaggen and Ron seemed to take interest in her answer too.

“Like ditching you fine fellows for a weekend spent counting kelpies with me.” Malfoy had returned and was now carrying two takeout coffees from Starbucks. “The lady has rather peculiar tastes,” he said, shoving past the two other men and handing a cup to her.

“What’s this?” she said, noticing that the label read _Darko_.

“A soy latte. You look like the type.” He glanced behind him. “Seems that we’re done here, yeah?”

Ron scowled but protested no further. “I’ll catch you later, ‘Mione.” And with a final glare at Malfoy, he left.

McLaggen, however, refused to take the blatant hint. “What about our date?” he said, causing Malfoy to turn fully around.

“Why do you want to date her?”

“Huh?”

“It’s a straightforward question that shouldn’t be hard to answer. You’ve been pursuing Granger here for the best part of a year and your success rate makes my own Death Eater career look respectable. The point is why do you still want her when she has clearly and repeatedly said no?”

“She’s…”

“What?” Malfoy sipped from his coffee with a frightening level of indifference. “Here’s your chance. Now convince her.”

“I…” McLaggen scratched the back of his head as he stared at Hermione.

“Seriously?” she said. “You’ve got nothing?”

“I think you’re pretty.”

“Great.”

“Pretty great, yeah.”

“Good lord.”

“Well I’m glad we could clarify the depths of your feelings. For isn’t that what this glorious day is all about?” Malfoy nodded past the doorway. “Best be going then.” He shut the door before McLaggen had even turned around. “I’m sure that gratified the ego.”

“That was awful,” Hermione said, drifting back to her desk to sink into her chair.

“Hardly. I was right. And though it is a regular occurrence, we can all still take a great deal of comfort in the fact.”

“Go fuck yourself, _Darko_.”

Malfoy snorted. “If I were McLaggen I’d have made sure to mention your surprisingly filthy mouth. Quite the turn on.”

“Is that all you would say?”

“No.” Back behind his desk and arms stretched behind his head, he seemed to ponder for a moment. “If I were trying to win you over—which I most certainly would since I have your checklist to go off—I would say that it was your intellect that grabbed me first. A colossal brain housed in an alluring feminine shell. You have a great deal of depth and maturity mixed with this innocent ingenue naiveté that beguiles any man of refined tastes. Your hair is wild but could still be tamed by the right master. You cannot censor a single one of your expressions and it makes you easy and extremely fun to read. You are loyal and kind and quick to anger and impulsive acts of violence, the usual tiresome Gryffindor combination. You are an extraordinarily skilled and gifted witch despite the assumed disadvantages of your Muggleborn beginnings. You’re the whole package, Granger. Who wouldn’t want a part of that?”

Hermione felt faint. “Erm… thanks,” she said while trying to hide her blushing face behind her coffee. She couldn’t even look his way.

“So, would I?”

“What?”

“Have more success than McLaggen with my answer?”

“Why’d you care?” And she looked up in time to catch the slightest of shrugs.

This was a hard one to decipher. On the surface, it was delivered with a casual and deep uncaring, like his answer would matter not. But there was an edge of tension, a glimpse of revealing too much. How could she tell such things? Did they both now know each other really so well?

“Hypothetically speaking,” he said.

“Hypothetically speaking, I would consider saying yes.”

“Am I your unicorn, Granger?”

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

He smirked, arms relaxing as he began to tidy up his desk. The tension was over, the moment gone, whatever it was, hypothetically at least. Hermione drank her coffee and started to put her desk in order too.

“Don’t stay too late,” Malfoy was saying, rising from his seat as he shrugged on his outer robes.

“It’s either here or a romantic evening with Crookshanks.”

“That decrepit furball? You really have an unfortunate weakness for gingers.” She wanted to retort but there was no acid behind his words. And he was busy, bending over to retrieve something from a lower drawer. She watched as he straightened up, a small wrapped package clasped in one hand.

“What’s that?”

“A gift.”

“For whom?”

“My mother.”

“You buy your mother a Valentine’s Day gift?”

“It’s not from me,” he said and slipped the package into an inner robe pocket.

“Then who?” He looked at her as if the answer should be obvious. “You mean… your father?”

“I told you he was a broken idealist. He always gave Mother an item of jewelery on Valentine’s Day. Even though he’s in prison, he commanded that I uphold the tradition.”

“That’s weirdly romantic,” Hermione said.

“You’d be surprised.”

“I have been.”

He stared at her then and since he was staring, she allowed herself the luxury of staring at him too. As annoying as it was to hear him say it, she had to admit that he was extremely handsome. Tall (though maybe not as tall as Ron) and broad (though not as wide and stocky as McLaggen) and with that unique white blond hair that he wore now short but with a consciously careless fringe that fell in his even more unique gray eyes. She could never get over his eyes. Or his cheekbones. Or the elegant length of his hands. She was grateful for this chance to stare at him, and he suddenly smiled as he realized she was checking him out.

“You really are fun to read,” he said. “Goodnight, Granger.”

“Malfoy, wait.”

She went and joined him where he stood before the floo. “I hope this is okay.” And she hugged him. She had never really touched him before and now she had her arms around him and could feel the firm contours of his chest and his warmth and the scent she had only ever caught wisps of until this moment; he smelled delicious. And he felt delicious too. Especially when his arms came up around her and he was holding her back. “Thanks for today,” she said.

“What did I do?”

“You made it bearable. Almost enjoyable even. I’m glad that I spent this dumb horrid waste of a holiday stuck in this office with you.”

“Is that your way of saying ‘Happy Valentine’s Day’, Granger?”

“I already said it.”

“But with feeling, yeah?”

She elbowed him in the side, and he grunted. “Impulsive Gryffindor,” he muttered, taking hold of her chin to tilt her head up to his. “Hypothetically speaking, how would you feel if I kissed you?”

She blinked at him. “I think I’d feel okay, strictly hypothetically speaking of course.”

“Only hypothetically, hm?” Then he kissed her. And she kissed him back. Arms around his neck and her body crushed flush against his. His mouth parted and his lips were soft and demanding and his tongue; how did he know to do that? She could hear him groan, quiet and deep, and she was not standing, he was holding her up. She had melted; she had only read of such things but her body was now liquid in his arms. Delicious kisses. She sighed. And they were real.

“Earth to Granger.” Her eyes blinked open. “I thought I lost you there.”

“No, I’m still here.”

“You should go home.”

“Come with me.”

“Hermione.” He sighed and he shrugged. She thought this one meant that it was taking all his restrained passion not to take her right then. “Mother is waiting. And maybe I want to do this right.”

“Right now?”

“Bloody stop it.” He smiled as he stroked her face. “We’ve got a romantic weekend counting kelpies, remember?”

“How could I forget?”

“Shall we call it a date?”

“If you like.”

“I’ll take you to dinner.”

“Even in your wellies?”

“Is this some sort of fetish you have?”

“I’ve just been thinking about it.”

“Perv.”

“About you in waterproof gear looking cold in the rain.”

“You really are a freak, Granger.”

“You said I’m the whole package.”

“A freaky package, yes.” He released her and took a step back. “I really should be going.”

“When will I see you again?”

“Tomorrow, crazy. It’s only Wednesday.”

“Oh.”

“You sounded like I was about to deploy abroad.”

“I just think I’ll miss you.”

“Keep up with talk like that. It does wonders for my ego.”

“And see? Now the moment’s passed.”

“Ha!”

“Just leave already.”

“Going, going.”

And he was gone.

When she arrived in her flat some time later, Crookshanks was sleeping on the sofa like the worst date ever. Cursing his thoughtless behavior, she went to the kitchen to start on dinner and was met by wide unblinking eyes beyond the window.

“Huh?”

The owl tilted its head, tapping once, and dropped a scroll in her hand as she let it in. It did not wait for a treat and she was too distracted to offer, her fingers tracing the ornate M of the wax seal. On breaking it, the parchment smelled welcomingly familiar. Hermione unfurled it to find a single line in curling script:

_Ceci n’est pas une Valentin._

And below that a drawing of a unicorn.

“So you do exist,” she whispered to herself and gave a happy little shrug all her own.


End file.
